Trousseau
by Becky215
Summary: The unique story about a trunk, a family, and love.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer_: No copyright infringement is intended.

**Trousseau**

**By Becky215**

_Prologue_

Few people would have called Mr. Thornton's bride a beautiful woman. Most were stunned by her sharp eyes and the shock of black hair that rested in a raven's knot at the nape of her neck. They were startled that a woman should speak so candidly and openly about her opinions; they balked when her fiancé suggested that she wanted to understand his business.

No, they could not call her beautiful. Striking, yes, but far from lovely.

No one uttered those sentiments aloud on the day of Thornton's wedding. It was a small affair at one of the few churches in Milton-Northern, but most were content with the simple orange blossoms that the bride chose to carry in her bouquet. Women at the ceremony clucked that it showed a lack of imagination, carrying such a familiar flower in the middle of autumn, but again no one said a word. They smiled and beamed and managed to feign a few tears when the smiling couple walked down the aisle after pledging their vows before God. Thornton had caught the attention of many Milton ladies, so it was no surprise that genuine tears were a challenge on the day he was pledged to another.

It was, in sum, a most peculiar wedding. The bride barely smiled, the groom laughed uproariously, and the servants hummed concerns about their future under the new mistress with her stormy brow. In truth, most of the guests were quite curious about the young woman. Indeed, in the quiet moments that followed the ceremony, the guests wandered out of the church and into the sunlight. A flat leather-bound trunk was placed near the driver's seat of the carriage that waited at the end of the pathway, and the bride and groom waved as they clasped hands and left the church. The bride had chosen a gown of watered silk with a veil embroidered with rose petals.

Of course, whispered conversations passed quickly through the crowd.

"That dress is a shock on such a plain girl," said Mrs. Harris, the wife of a Milton manufacturer who'd often passed his nights with Thornton over glasses of brandy and playing cards. "I imagine she wanted to make a splash with such a fancy gown."

"Oh, no, dear, you're quite wrong," replied her friend Cecilia Lamb. "The gown was made in Milton. Yes, Milton! I understand it was quite a shock for Mr. Thornton, as well, who'll have none but the best, of course. No, _he_ wanted to send for a gown from Paris, of all places, but the girl insisted on Milton."

"Milton? Why should one want a wedding gown sewn from smoke and soot?"

"I do not know. I do understand, however, that a wealthy relation has given her a handsome trousseau. I heard it from Gillian Carington. Apparently some aunt secured a most uniquely shaped hope chest and filled it with heirlooms and treasures."

"And here I was imagining that she was a girl of simple means, with her Milton finery and wilting orange blossoms!"

"Oh, she is, Mrs. Harris, she is. Very simple, and very proud, too, if you ask me. The aunt, though, she's a woman of extraordinary taste, even if she was barely present during the girl's childhood."

"Or barely present during the girl's wedding," Mrs. Harris replied in a droll tone, noticing that there was not an aunt on hand for the reception. "Though I suppose she was happy that her niece should marry a man as wealthy as Mr. Thornton. Tell me, Cecilia, what is in her trousseau?"

No one answered the question. They were too surprised by the sudden boyish gleam in the young groom's eye; while critics maligned the bride's clothing, her new husband seemed quite content with all that was before him.

Across the lawn, two men stood in the sun in shared contemplation.

"She is pretty, in a way, is she not?" Mr. Williams wondered. He ventured the question to his friend Mr. Garson. The two confirmed bachelors worked in a bank on the other corner of Milton. Surprised and mournful that their friend should abandon them for marriage, the gentlemen stood close together at the back of the crowd and watched the couple walk away in the sunlight.

"I suppose. Very dark opinions, though," Garson scowled.

"You know, Fritz, some people might call her 'dark opinions' realism," his friend winked.

"I don't give a damn what you call it. It's not a trait one wants to see in a young lady."

Williams was not convinced. He caught the groom's eye and waved goodbye once again, but he was studying the girl. He'd heard that she was from Milton and that her father had worked as a lawyer. His sister had shared the bride's dossier in greater detail: that she could play the piano but with little talent, that she'd read some of the classics but with little interest, that she had a mind for figures and a hand for needlepoint. Williams was certain that most of those details were quite unnecessary. He watched the girl as she was handed into a carriage, and he decided that she was actually quite pretty.

"Only if you like wild hair and a mouth that's a bit off center," Garson replied after his friend shared his opinion.

"You're too comfortable in your ways, Fritz. No, I think our boy has chosen quite a fine lady to be his wife. Even if she is a bit too outspoken."

The conversations continued in much the same vein, and to some it might have seemed unfair that no one should rise to defend the blushing bride's honor. Perhaps the tragedy was that she had so few connections in her life. Her parents were buried side by side on the hill overlooking the town, and she'd been raised by an aunt with little interest in the misadventures of young girls. Her friends were few, and her relations were fewer. By joining in marriage with Mr. Thornton, she had secured a new world of faces, both new and familiar, that she might someday call friends.

It is lucky that Mr. and Mrs. Thornton did not hear these hushed testimonies and criticisms. Thornton's temper was legendary, and one would blanch to imagine how he might react if he'd heard these malicious sneers about his bride. No, it is for the best that the whispers were never heard, for the Thorntons were quite happy to imagine that the world was smiling upon them that day. Couched in their carriage as they left the church behind them, Thornton captured his wife's hand and smiled. "I love you, darling."

He grinned as he saw the flush spreading across her cheek, but she pressed his fingers and returned his smile.

"I love you, too."

"Do you know…that might be the first time you've actually said that to me," he chuckled.

"What?" She was surprised at such a declaration. Their engagement had been short, but she'd been assured of his affections from the start. She was certain that she'd made her feelings known, as well.

"Yes, my dear, I do believe that that is the first time you've spoken those particular words."

"Oh. Well, perhaps I'm not one to show affection, like a silly girl in a poem, but-"

Her husband laughed and hushed her words by pressing a kiss to her hand. "I know, I know. I'll be able to live my days without your spouting declarations of love around every corner. I have your heart, and that is enough for me."

"Is it?"

"Always, dear Hannah. Always."


	2. The Gift

_The Gift_

When she woke in the morning, she was startled to discover that the sunlight should be so bright. Still reluctant to abandon the warm comforts of sleep, she pulled up the bedclothes and closed her eyes to the light. She remembered a book from her childhood. Her father had once held her on his knee and read aloud from Homer, and she had been delighted with notions of the rose-tinted fingers of dawn that reached out to her from the story. In those days, her father would hold her close, bathing in the quiet music of her laughter as he boldly declared the bravery of Odysseus and feigned fear as he read descriptions of the battles.

Opening her eyes, she smiled. It was strange to remember her father, or her mother; faces that had long since faded into the dusty halls of memory were startling to resurrect, but in that moment she could see his face, smell his cologne, and remember his smile. John Calden had been a good man, but like all good men, death had claimed him as a friend and taken him away from his only daughter. She'd been but fifteen at the time.

Hannah Thornton sighed and looked at the black smudge on the wall of the fireplace. She remembered the day she'd first held her son in her arms, and with a quaint smile she recalled how it had seemed that her father was looking up at her.

"John," she'd announced decisively, cradling the small weight against her breast. "We shall call him John."

"John?" her husband balked, smoking a cigar by the window as he merrily admired his wife and first-born child. "I thought we'd agreed on Stephen."

"His name will be John, George. John Thornton. My son."

She looked out the window and wondered again how time could have passed so quickly. Hours and days, months and years, it all seemed to slip through one's fingers like fine sand on the beach. It is a luxury to be old and blessed with the gift of reflection; looking back on life is like peering down a pathway in a tunnel. To look forward reveals only the light shines in the distance, but the memory of what has already passed can define what was left behind.

She folded back the covers and winced to feel the cold wooden floor beneath her feet, but she felt the years settle in her bones as she rose to her feet. It was pleasant to sometimes look back. Remembering a child is to remember a gift, and one that can be protected, coddled, and loved as one desires. In her memories, John was her baby, the child she'd claimed as her own in the first day of his life.

_My son._

Those had been her words, and no one had stepped in to interject. George was happy to let his wife tease and fawn over the boy, and it pleased him to see the smile that the child coaxed onto Hannah's lips. From the beginning, as those first gulps of air filled his lungs, he had been hers.

She gazed out the window as she reached for her dressing gown, and her eyes filled with the quiet tears she could not shed in front of another. She sat on her bed, clutching the linens as the sunlight poured in, and wept for what she was losing. On that day, in the gentle hours of the afternoon, her son would become the husband of Margaret Hale. He would slip through his mother's fingers and join the ranks of the innumerable things she had already lost: a husband, time, beauty, years and ages of laughter and tears. She knew that it was right for him to marry; indeed, she'd hoped for years that he would find a partner to stand beside him. She'd expected it, but it suddenly seemed cruel for life to move so achingly into the future; not for the first time, she wished that it could all stand still, just for a moment or an hour, so she might look into his eyes and record all that she wanted to remember.

Everything was going to change. She was certain that he would no longer turn to her for advice or comfort. She would never plan his gatherings or order his meals; she would relinquish the painful pleasure of soothing his heartaches and stroking his brow. She'd seen the looks he shared with Miss Hale; he loved her, and enough time had passed to reveal to Hannah that the girl loved her son in return. She could not deny that she'd been upset by their engagement, that the notion of calling the proud heiress as part of her family was initially abhorrent. She'd cried into her pillow after reluctantly embracing her son and pressing the girl's hand. She'd held back her sorrows when she watched John teasingly touch the girl's fingers after breakfast the next day.

She stared at the sun and dried her tears. The rose-tinted fingers of the morning would not wait for silly women and their emotions; the day had started, and Hannah knew that she must greet it. She dressed slowly, smoothing her hands over the black satin gown she'd worn to her daughter's wedding only a few months prior. She sighed at her reflection in the glass and marveled at how different one's perceptions can be. When Fanny married, Hannah had been cheered that the girl had found a match before her mother had become old enough to be considered a burden. The thought of John's wedding was quite different; regarding her reflection, she suddenly thought herself to be grey and tired, marred by the life she had led and branded by struggles and worries. Wrinkles are an unforgiving testament to a woman's pains and sorrows; stitched across her brow, it seemed that her heart was naked to anyone who cared to look.

The maid knocked on the door and announced that breakfast was ready to be served, but Hannah lingered for a moment in her bedchamber. Crossing the room in a storm of skirts and rustling silk, she knelt beside her bed and reached beneath it. Her fingers touched the luggage that she had seldom used, but she immediately recognized the smooth surface of a different texture. She sat back and withdrew the unique trunk from beneath the bed. The ivory-bound case was coated in a film of dust, but she brushed her fingertips across the surface and spied her own initials engraved in the mahogany.

It was a most extraordinary container. The fine leather handles had faded with the years, but Hannah smiled in spite of herself and concluded that all of us must fade with time. The lock had never worked properly, no matter how many times she'd asked the locksmith to inspect it, but it did not seem to matter. The simple but elegant trunk contained few possessions that any sneak thief would wish to filch. She pressed her fingers along the leather binding, caressing the ivory corners and relishing the happy memories it resurrected. She noticed that the wood was still scarred in several places; it had endured a long journey since her wedding day, but again it only seemed fitting that it should bear the same wounds she carried in her heart.

She was certain that most of Milton knew of her husband's troubles. His death had shocked most of the town, and her quick departure with the children must have been the subject of considerable gossip. It seems so strange to look back at the past, and for a moment she wondered if one should look back at all. The past was full of sparkling memories, smiling babies, and flowered sunshine, but it also bore the swelling oceans of tears that threatened to pull her into the deep in the silence of her nightmares. Years of old were rife with hunger and whimpering children, and she wondered what good it could do the heart to revisit those sorrowful days.

Still, on that particular morning, crouching before her trunk with wandering fingers and a curious eye, it seemed innocent to look back at the shadows. Indeed, what better day to remember one's wedding than on a wedding day? She recalled how happy her aunt had been to send the trunk to Milton on the day before the ceremony. Surprised and disappointed that Aunt Warrington had not come to the wedding, Hannah had delayed in opening the heavy trunk for several days. It had been loaded onto the carriage with the rest of her bags and trunks, and it was not until she moved into George's home on Hampshire Street that she'd even considered opening it.

"Do open it, darling. It might have some wonderful prizes for you." She could still hear George's voice in her mind, the memory of his tongue curling over the words in that playful, chiding tone he never managed to abandon in boyhood. "You can't hold such a grudge forever."

"The aunt who raises me doesn't find the time to come to my wedding, but I'm meant to set aside an afternoon to look at all her lace and finery?" Hannah had scoffed. "I can hardly imagine the likelihood of that."

Nonetheless, when her husband left for town and the servants scuttled into the kitchen after serving tea, she found herself alone in her new bedroom with a stack of trunks and the gaudy glory box studded with ivory. She'd been tempted to stow the case away in a closet, but she was curious despite her best efforts to feign otherwise.

She touched the chest and remembered what it had been like to open it on that particular day in October. The smell of rosewood and mahogany had filled her senses, and her fingers fell upon the most glorious white damask linens that she had ever seen. She imagined that her aunt had imported them from India or Spain, for the weaving was exquisite and summoned memories of snow-covered hilltops. The new bride had traced her fingertip across the fine scarlet monogram that decked the corners of each napkin and tablecloth and blushed to see her initial entwined with those of her husband. She'd taken them from the chest with eager hands and instructed one of the servants to replace all the linens in the house with those she had received on her wedding day.

The bold white linens had faded to a smooth shade of cream, but the fiery monogram still shone in each corner. She recalled the day when she'd impetuously ripped out her own initials to replace them with those of John and Miss Hale. It had been odd to see the delicate embroidery of each letter slip away into nothing; there had been a faded contrast beneath the lettering that revealed the whiteness as it had once been all those years ago. She had not remembered to tailor the linens in her wedding trunk, though, and so the ivory hued material in her hands still carried the delicate moniker of G.H.T.

She folded them gingerly and restored them to the chest, taking care not to disturb the other items that had been placed within its confines. She had once been happy to discover the gifts that her aunt had given her, and for only a few moments they had compensated for the woman's notable absence at her only niece's wedding. Hannah had known that Aunt Warrington never cared for George Thornton. The woman inveighed against the engagement for nearly an hour when the would-be groom announced their intentions, but Hannah remained stoic and still as her aunt enumerated George's faults and failures. When Florence Waddington had concluded her tirade, Hannah folded her hand over George's arm and declared that he would care for her through all of her days.

Her aunt's reply had been salted with age and experience, and it bore the bruises of regret. "He'll get you nowhere, my girl, and leave you with nothing but some spare change and a broken heart."

Now, all those years later, time had kissed away her youth and too many summers had faded to winter. She looked at her linens and realized that her aunt had tried to be supportive, tried to show that she cared, but had in effect left her adrift in the darkness of uncertainty.

A soft footstep in the hall startled her from her thoughts, and she looked up in time to see Miss Hale pass down the corridor for breakfast. Hannah smarted again that the bride should dismiss so much tradition and so many expectations. She'd insisted that Miss Hale should stay at a hotel until the wedding, which had been hurried along by her son's impatience and a hastily secured marriage license in the previous week, but the groom's mother and bride had ultimately given in to his request that she stay on Marlborough Street. Few people had heard of the engagement in the two weeks that had passed since it was announced, and after tending to a guest chamber at the other end of the house, Hannah reluctantly agreed that the arrangement would do.

It was an interesting phenomenon to share her house with such a young woman. Hannah would never declare that she liked Miss Hale or that she thought she was a proper match for her son, but bearing the girl's company on each passing day helped her to see the kindness that rested within her. She would never admit it to her son or her daughter, or to anyone for that matter, but Hannah saw something of herself in John's blushing bride-to-be. Of course she would never forget the pain that Miss Hale had inflicted on her son's heart, but she fingered the soft material of those worn linens and looked again to her memories.

She thought for a moment, ignoring the dust that settled into the folds of her skirt. Perhaps looking back was not the best way to spend one's time. Perhaps the future held the truth and the answers to the secrets that had not yet been uttered. Perhaps this girl, with her fine ways and her sharp tongue, perhaps she was the one who could love him as he deserved. John was bright and quick to temper, but a few days with Miss Hale and all her proud objections to Hannah's complaints revealed that the boy might have found his perfect match.

Perhaps.

She closed the trunk and heard the soft rattle of all that it contained. A lifetime of memories clamored in the back of her mind, and for a moment she was overwhelmed by all that had passed through her heart in the decades that comprised her life. Children's stories, funerals, a wedding and pressed flowers, rounded bellies and the surprise of a new life in her arms. She remembered the tears and those sharp, unbearable complaints of hunger in the depths of her soul, the tears she had shed and the agony of defeat, but mostly she recalled the strength in her back, the will in her heart, and the light in her children's eyes.

Perhaps the past is not the place for an old woman to dwell. As the house came to life beneath her, she heard the hushed murmur of John's laughter and the clamor of silver clinking against the china. A new world was beginning today, and as she touched her trunk and thought of its contents, Hannah decided that the past did not belong in memory. It was a gift that should be passed on to the future, where it can never be forgotten and no tear can stay moist forever. After all, love can never die in the warm confines of a memory.

She closed the dented clasps of the trunk and called for Jane as she passed down the corridor. "Have this trunk placed in Miss Hale's chamber," she said slowly.

And with a bob of her head and a curtsy in her step, Jane did as she was instructed and watched the mistress walk regally down the stairs to her breakfast on the day of her only son's wedding.


	3. Looking Inside

_Looking Inside_

Margaret had little appetite as she sat at the breakfast table. She smiled quietly as John helped himself to another slice of toasted bread, but she sipped her tea in silence and wondered how she could possibly finish the food before her. It seemed wrong to be nervous for something about which she was so certain, but still there was a fluttering in her belly as she imagined her wedding later that afternoon.

"I understand your aunt is not to join us for the ceremony?" Mrs. Thornton asked slowly. Margaret was desperate to hide her reaction; her aunt's letter had arrived only yesterday, and with unquenchable tears she'd taken in the news that Edith and her aunt would not be attending the wedding.

"No, she is not," Margaret replied. "She complained of a headache that prevents her from traveling, and Edith is not one to make such a journey alone. I suppose that is what one can expect when making plans so quickly." With that she smiled at her fiancé, stroking his wrist with her fingertips and drinking in the warmth of his smile, but she suspected that her future mother-in-law could see through her lie. Indeed, if her aunt had complained of anything, it was that her niece showed a lack of propriety in marrying so hastily and in choosing such a man who was so "painfully" beneath her station.

Margaret had known that her haste would cause complaints, but like Mr. Thornton, she was eager to join him in marriage and begin their lives together. In hurrying back to Milton, they'd hoped to secure all of the necessary papers to facilitate a quick union, but they'd also hoped that their families would join them in celebrating the happiness they'd struggled for so long to secure. Aunt Shaw's letter, along with Mrs. Thornton's cloudy brow and clipped remarks, reminded Margaret that all would not move with ease.

The letter had spanned all of three pages, and each paragraph included a new assault that took hold of Margaret's heart. Aunt Shaw wrote that the girl's poor mother should be crying in her grave at the thought of her daughter marrying a man with who had no prospects for the future, noting, "It's well enough to marry for love if there is anything in purse with which to buy a loaf of bread, but dear Margaret, can't you see that Mr. Thornton has nothing to place on his table, nothing to call his own, nothing but the heart you have so willingly and recklessly placed in his hands?" She'd been indignant that the young man had not even written to Margaret's family to ask for her hand. The second page maligned all of Milton and its smoky air before letting the bride know that she alone was responsible for "the broken shards of poor Henry's heart."

The third page had held a different tone, one that was almost apologetic, as the older woman wrote, "He's handsome enough, Margaret, but I should cry in my pillow every night to think that such a smart girl should be taken in by a man without a future. You have high dreams of resurrecting him from the ashes, but surely you know that alchemy is a worthless practice. I fear that he will use you for your fortune, and such a worry shall keep me up for all hours of the night. Indeed, I marvel that he is so poor he cannot afford a smile, for I never saw a light in his eyes that could be called love. I suppose I must wish you well, though, as this will not likely reach you before the ceremony. I wish you happiness, if you can find it, but I do hope that you will reconsider your plans."

She'd placed the letter in one of her bedroom drawers. Her fiancé had noticed the gentle worry in her eyes when she greeted him for breakfast, but she'd managed to keep her complaints to herself. More than once she had admitted gladly that all she owned would become his once they were married, but it seemed unfair to share her sorrows when she knew that he could not contain his smile on that particular day.

She looked up from her tea and noticed that Mrs. Thornton was watching her with a concerned eye. Blushing under such scrutiny, Margaret abandoned her napkin and excused herself from the table. Thornton looked up in concern and demanded to know where she was going.

"There's a wedding today, darling, or have you not heard?" she asked blithely, delighting in his boyish smile as he silently apologized for his sudden outburst. "There is much to be done before we can think of leaving for the church." She pressed his hand and reveled in the warmth of his touch. She left the room with a thoughtful smile, but she heard his mother muttering that a bride and groom should not have breakfasted together on the day of their wedding.

For a moment, as she climbed the stairs and felt the beating of her heart, she wished that they could just run away together. She wondered how long it would take to pack two trunks, dart onto a carriage, and disappear into the country. She knew that that was the behavior of silly girls and disgraced women, but she was also certain that she could be happy with those few things she wanted for her own. She was a simple girl at heart; she wanted only her lover, a few books, and a change of clothes for Sunday services. The rest could fall away or be given to someone else who might have better use for it all.

She was a simple girl, indeed, but also a realistic one, and as she opened the door to the chamber, she knew that there were promises and obligations to be kept. She would have to write to her aunt, and Hannah Thornton would have to be counted as family. Again Margaret wished that she could encourage the woman to like her. She was not desperate that they should be great friends, but their few attempts at conversation had been like the uncertain steps of a small child. They tried to discuss music and art, politics and the weather, but each conversation seemed to founder helplessly with the draining echo of a spoon whirling in a cup of tea.

When she entered her room, she barely noticed that a new trunk rested beside her bed. Dixon had arrived only a few days earlier with all of Margaret's possessions from London, and the trunks and cases were still waiting to be unpacked when she assumed her place in the master's quarters later that afternoon. Again Margaret blushed at the thought, but it made her smile in spite of herself. She knew that she had been given a gift in John Thornton's love, and no matter what troubles and worries weighed on her shoulders, it was one to be treasured. He was in love with her, and that was more than enough to wipe away tears and soothe one's sorrows.

She only noticed the case when she caught the glint of ivory from the corner of her eye. Stooping to inspect it, she allowed her fingers to slip across the dusty surface, and she noticed the faint trail of fingertips over a monogram upon its lid. The letters H.C.T. were barely noticeable at first, but the fine engraving upon the mahogany could not be missed once it was discovered.

Margaret's fingers glided across the fine ivory clasps, but the soft echo of a footstep startled her. She turned to see Mrs. Thornton standing in the doorway.

"I see you've found the trunk. Gaudy thing, isn't it?"

"Forgive me, Mrs. Thornton. I was not going to open it. I only-"

"I had Jane deliver the case to your chamber earlier this morning."

"Pardon?"

"It was my trousseau," she replied flatly. "My aunt gave it to me when I married John's father, and I thought you should have it."

Margaret could not think of what to say. Her heart seemed lodged in her throat, and for a moment her fingers nearly rested atop the large case. When she finally managed to speak, she could only utter a whisper. "Oh."

"Yes, it seems foolish to keep such things tucked away under closets and bedclothes. You're welcome to whatever you find inside. I've barely opened the thing in the last several years." Hannah tried to make her words sound casual and disinterested, but Margaret seemed to sense the meaning of the moment.

"Do you mind if I look inside? It's such a lovely case."

"It's yours now. I only wanted to keep it in the family. Do with it as you will." She started to leave the room, but the girl's voice stopped her in her steps.

"Oh, Mrs. Thornton, please stay. I should love it if you would…well, I suppose you have things to tend to this morning. I only…I'm sorry, I seem to be quite out of my senses at the moment." She blushed and looked down at the ivory clasps. "It's so lovely, and I'm so glad you thought to pass it on to me."

Hannah was torn by the desire to dart from the room and an urge to touch the memories that were hidden within the trunk. She saw tears swimming in Miss Hale's eyes, and for only an instant she was taken back to her own wedding day. She remembered only snatches of the afternoon, but each piece of the memory was stitched together in bright colors and warm sunlight. She remembered sitting alone in the narthex, holding her flowers and fighting to still her trembling fingers. She recalled a sea of unfamiliar faces watching her every move and the brilliant smile of George Thornton as he took her hand. Her gown had been ivory or the shade of pearl; she could hardly remember.

What she did remember was that sense of the world falling apart into small pieces and the realization that she would have to put it all back together again in her new life as a wife, lover, mother, and friend. She looked at Margaret and saw that same fear, the same sense of loneliness and joy, the same doe-eyed happiness that she'd felt when her new husband had kissed her so gently at the altar.

"It opens with the ivory clasps, though they can be difficult," she said, turning back into the room. She placed a chair near the chest and watched as Margaret carefully opened the clasps. A lifetime of memories crept out of their cage and back into her heart, and Hannah was at peace with all that was before her.

Margaret was careful with her treasure. She smoothed the coverlet of the bed before placing the items upon it. She held her breath as she beheld each new gift, but she could hear Mrs. Thornton's gentle sigh as the prizes of the past were brought into display.

Embroidered linens, pressed and emblazoned with the monogram of Hannah Thornton and the man who had once lived and laughed beside her. Red was the color of blood and love, and it was alive.

A small family bible bound in leather. The pages crinkled against one another, and some passages had been underlined with a shaky hand. The names of the Thornton children were inscribed on the front panel, and it seemed that the past was breathing in the young bride's hands.

A tortoiseshell comb, flecked with cloudy shades of lavender and sunset pink. Hannah remembered it as a gift from her husband, and she could almost feel the press of his lips on the nape of her neck in the shadows and firelight of their bedroom.

A lace handkerchief, faded and yellowed by the breath of time. It seemed weighted by sorrow, but Margaret folded it neatly and fingered the rose leaves embroidered upon its edges.

A book of poetry with a cover decorated in lilacs and lilies. Margaret paged through it to spy lines about the moon and the sun and love and loss. Hannah had treasured it as a girl in her aunt's cold townhouse. It was a first edition of Percy Shelley.

There was so much more. A few summer dresses stitched from faded linen and muslin were draped across Margaret's lap, and painted miniatures of smiling women, proud men, and gentle children rested on a pillow beside the bed. A pressed orchid tumbled from the pages of the bible, a dull gold coin clattered to the bottom of the chest, and a small set of tarnished silver flatware was bound in a satin ribbon.

"Most of this was not contained in the chest when I received it, of course," Hannah said. She was not apologizing; it was an explanation. "You'll find that the present gives you more gifts than the past."

"This is wonderful. Will you…oh, Mrs. Thornton, please tell me about all of this. I would love to know what it all means."

The girl's imploring gaze made Hannah wary. To reach into her memories could stir fires that had been snuffed out so long ago, but it only seemed right to remember and let the stories continue. She felt the strain run deep into her muscles, reaching her heart to peer into the well of tears that rippled in her soul.

"Please," Margaret said again. "Please tell me."

Hannah thought of her son as a young man, then as a boy, and then as a child, and she remembered the sunlight of yesterdays. Looking down at the woman who had claimed him as her own, she knew that the future would be just as bright, if not tempered by occasional storms and rain showers. She knew that the story was aching to be told.

"Where shall I begin?"


	4. The Book of Lilac Leaves

_The Book of Lilac Leaves_

The funeral had been on a Thursday. Clouds tumbled overhead, sunshine remained absent, and puddles bothered the mourners.

It was cold for April, or at least that was what everyone was murmuring as they kissed one another on the cheek and turned slowly from the graveside. Hannah clung to John's hand, feeling the boy's fingers slip stubbornly against her gloved palm as she stared into the steely horizon. She'd thought to order him a suit of mourning only on Tuesday afternoon; the seams were too tight and the coat was too small. He fidgeted against the coarse material and watched his toes sink into the soft sodden ground.

George was nowhere to be seen. Ellen's death seemed to have stolen the light from his soul, and Hannah was certain that people were wondering why the little girl's father had not come to her funeral. She could not hear their whispers. She only heard the remembered echo of the rainstorm that had long since abated; the steady drum of each drop against the windowpanes had washed across her heart as she lay in bed, numb and quiet, lost in the darkness that had swallowed her whole since young Ellen fell ill.

It seemed unfair for a child to pass from the earth after spending only a handful of months in the sunshine. Ellen Thornton had surprised them in October, arriving suddenly in the earliest days of Hannah's confinement and reaching out to the world with the smallest fingers that her mother had ever seen. The doctor had been somber when he predicted that she would not live to see another day, but the child's parents rejoiced as hours became days that gave way to weeks and months. George called her his "harvest blossom" and spent many nights cradling his small girl beside the warmth of the fire.

John Thornton had been mystified and puzzled by his wee sister. After dubbing her "Ellie" and introducing her to the small band of toy soldiers his father had given him for Christmas, he discovered that he could love the little person who'd stolen into his life and demanded a share of his parents' affection.

He was only five years old, but John was quick to smile at the little one's gurgling laughter and the curious way she snatched at his fingers. She became his partner in crime, though the boy fulfilled most of those crimes alone as his sister could not leave her cradle. He filched cookies from the kitchen and playfully hid his mother's sewing kit, but he reveled as he winked at his napping sister and argued that she had been his accomplice.

The rumble of thunder in the distance shook the family from whatever happy memories were comforting them on that dark April day. Having accepted that her niece was content with George Thornton, Hannah's Aunt Warrington had made an effort to know her niece's children in the years since that sunny wedding day. She'd hurried to Milton to offer her support to the family when she heard of Ellen's illness, and as the last of the mourners turned to avoid the rain, Florence Warrington tugged gently on her poor niece's elbow.

Hannah jerked away from the woman's touch, and her reply was curt and simple. "No. I'll stay."

"Hannah, dear, you cannot-"

"I can, and I shall. Take John back to the house. I will be with you directly."

"You should not stay here alone. It is not…well, it is not done."

"Many things are done that should never have happened. The death of a child is one of them. I will stay longer."

Realizing that there was no way of arguing, Aunt Warrington took John's hand and walked slowly from the gravesite. Like most children in his position, the boy was frightened of the fear and sorrow that had gripped his family. He'd climbed out of bed in the dark hours of Monday morning to discover that the house had been turned upside down. His mother would not leave Ellen's nursery, and his father was talking sternly with the doctor beside a fire that did not seem to be giving any warmth. He'd stumbled into the nursery, still kissed with the dazed comforts of sleep, but his footsteps had alerted Hannah's attention.

"Out, John!"

He'd been startled at her abrupt tone. His mother doted on him, loved and caressed him. She had never spoken to him in that way, and her sharp tone shook his heart and drew a few tears.

Ellen was whimpering softly, coughing and retching in the shadowy depths of her cradle. Hannah's hands disappeared into the pillows and blankets, and the child emerged in her arms to cling to her mother's gown. The lavender dress seemed stark against the little girl's rosy, rouge-stained skin. Ellen sighed and clutched wildly at Hannah's hair, but she could not be soothed.

"John, leave. Now," Hannah spat again. He was mesmerized by the ruddy bumps raging across his sister's skin. The image frightened him, and he darted from the room without another word.

He had nowhere to turn. His father was agonizing in an armchair, clutching one of Ellen's dolls in his large hand and weeping tears that were weighted by what was to be lost. John could not understand their fears, nor could he bear to see the tears of the father he so admired. A warm hand touched his shoulder, and the little boy turned to find a smile. It was Rachel, a kind girl with cinnamon colored hair who worked in the kitchen. He remembered the times when Rachel had passed him extra slices of cake after dinner, but in that moment he could only think of her smile and the light it reflected on such a shadowy morning.

"Come along, love. You'll need some breakfast." The words were simple, but they spoke to his heart, and she scooped him into her arms and carried him into the smoky, dreamlike world of the kitchen. Rachel had fed him and brushed her fingers through his hair, never bothering to explain what was happening in the rooms above them. He did not ask any questions, and after eating one of the cookies from the cupboard, he curled up for a nap on the small cot near the fire.

When he woke, the house was drowning in tears, and a person he had never seen before told him that his sister had gone to Heaven to dance with God.

Aunt Warrington held his hand too tightly as they walked away from Ellen's grave, but he knew that his mother would have wanted him to behave. He followed her down to the carriage, but he stopped to look back up the hill. His mother was standing beside the small granite stone, silhouetted in shadows like the obelisks and angels carved from marble. She kept her hands clasped against her waist, and the folds of her black gown thundered in the wind. For a moment it seemed that she, too, had turned to stone so she might guard the dead in the echoing quiet of the cemetery.

Hannah was thankful for the peace of silence. She knew that the storm was coming, but it could not compare to the angry dark clouds that gathered in her heart. Anger battled with sorrow, and the grieving mother was inclined to give way to the rage within. She hated that she should feel so alone. She hated the people who thought it was comforting to remind her that children died everyday; in that moment, she hated a god that was selfish enough to take a wee babe from her mother's arms before the girl was old enough to understand what it meant to be loved.

She'd been in the room when Ellen drew her last breath; bathing her feverish skin, she had brushed her fingers through the girl's downy chestnut curls and murmured promises that she could not keep.

"Everything's going to be alright, lamb. Everything will get better."

She knew that she would never forget that moment, how Ellen sighed and knitted her brow as her mother touched the angry red welts marring her pearl colored skin. Hannah had cherished the almost weightless sensation of cradling the girl's small hand in her own, and she'd looked into those deep blue eyes as her daughter sweated the last moments of her life. The doctor had been lurking in the back of the room, muttering that such cases were uncommon in children of this age, but Hannah had forgotten him. In those few short breaths, she was alone with her child, and just as she'd coaxed her into the world, she kissed her brow and promised to meet her again.

More than any of it, she hated that she could not wrench the tears from her heart. She'd left the shrill silence of that room to find her husband and tell him of what they had lost. She stood before him in the study and startled herself by the flat burden of her words.

"Ellen is dead."

It was like the frail moment when a piece of glass shatters into sparkling shards of diamonds. George's face crumpled into a pitiful mess of tears and sorrow. He clutched at Hannah's hands, burying his face in her skirts as he held her close, but she stood quite still, brushing her fingers absently through his thick, dark hair without a whisper. She absorbed his agony and shared in it, but she could not speak, could not think, could not find the tears she was so desperate to shed.

They'd spent much of the day in a numb stupor. Luncheon was never served, and their son was kept in the quiet company of the kitchen. George locked himself away in the nursery; devastated by loss, he wanted to be with his Ellen, to touch her simple possessions and drink in the memories that would one day fade as his own life pressed regretfully on towards tomorrow. Hannah retired to her room and slept the painful, dreamless sleep of the bereaved. She woke after dark, but still she could not cry.

Aunt Warrington and the other mourners had wondered where George Thornton was when they gathered to place his child in the ground of the family plot. No one seemed to know, though everyone had a conjecture; some imagined that he had drowned himself in drink, but others with macabre, fantastic imaginations wondered if he had disappeared into madness. Hannah Thornton did not know where he had gone. She only knew why.

On Tuesday, a seamstress had come to the house to tailor the mistress' mourning wear. Hannah stood before the mirror, bathed in black as the woman adjusted the bustle and seams of the gown she'd last worn to a distant cousin's wake. She looked at herself in the glass, watching the world pass by through a veil of grey. She numbly ignored the silly seamstress' musings. She watched her own unsmiling features and was startled by the bruised shadows lurking beneath her eyes.

The girl left before teatime, but Hannah lingered in her chamber and studied the black gown that hung from her frame. She was only twenty-seven years old, but suddenly it seemed as though she'd lived a lifetime in only a short breath of days.

George pushed into the room without bothering to knock. Hannah could smell the faint whisper of whiskey on his breath, but she watched him in the mirror as he slowly walked up to her side. Neither of them spoke; they regarded each other in the glass, but the silence was breathtaking in its pain.

"I've sent to the minister, and John's suit will arrive from the tailor's later this afternoon," she said, breaking their gaze by studying her own hands. "I have also written to only a few friends and family members. The funeral will be on Thursday." Her husband said nothing but regarded her in the glass with ice in his eyes. "I thought we might have daisies for the service. What do you think?"

"My mother would have cried."

His words took her aback, encouraging her to reply with a simple question. "What?"

"My mother. She hardly knew how to spell her own name, but she would've known it was right to cry if her baby was being put in an early grave."

"George, I'll-"

"I've watched you, Hannah. The child's been cold in her bed for a whole day, and not a tear have you shed in her memory. I don't understand, Hannah. You fawn on the boy as though he were born in a manger, but you'll not cry for the babe? She was nothing short of perfect."

"I know, George." She'd fought to keep her voice even, but she could feel her heart aching to burst with love, betrayal, and an indescribable sorrow. "I loved her, too."

"And yet you show no emotion! I feel my own soul bleeding out for my Ellen, but you carry on with ordering flowers and draping yourself in black, not even batting an eye to feel for the girl."

"I can't make you understand how I am feeling, George."

"You once said you were not one to show emotion, but you know what I think?" He paused, as though he were waiting for her to look upon the axe that was yet to fall. "I think it's not a matter of being unable to show emotions. I wonder if you are capable of feeling them at all."

He left the room in a fury, leaving her to soothe the blow of his words. He would never need to beat her or bruise her like the brutish men in the slums. George Thornton could decimate her soul with only a clever twist of syllables.

No one had seen him since he'd stormed from her room and left the house in a silent storm of emotion. Aunt Warrington had arrived before suppertime, and John had watched from the corner as the women talked of everything but the obvious. They never mentioned his father's empty chair at the dinner table, and they did not talk about his little sister.

Standing alone on the hill, Hannah wondered after George. He was not a strong man. Given to passions and the tempests in his heart, she knew that he could be bold and reckless. She worried for him, just as she worried for the poor son whose smile she could not face, but she looked into the hole in the earth and realized that it reflected the gaping wound in her heart. She wondered if she could force tears, and she felt suddenly embarrassed. So many girls could cry over a missed stitch in their sewing or for a figure in a painting, but she could not manage her tears for the girl she had loved and lost.

She kept her place for a moment before turning back and walking down the hill. It pulled at her heart to leave her Ellen alone as nighttime set in, but she knew that it was right. Twilight was upon the city, but Hannah dismissed her carriage and walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the house on the corner of town.

No one had stayed to comfort the family. Most felt uncomfortable by Thornton's absence, and the unfamiliar aunt made a poor hostess as she tried to receive the people she had never before met. When Hannah walked into the house, she was greeted by dimmed candles and the smell of a roast wafting in from the kitchen. Her aunt was nowhere to be found, and most of the servants were likely still in the kitchen.

She abandoned her hat and the cloak that was soaked in mud and rain, but the sound of playful footsteps caught her in her path. Turning towards it, she spied her son sprawled on the carpet in his father's study. The too-tight suit coat was crumpled on the floor beside him, but his mother could not complain. She leaned quietly in the doorway, watching with a smile as he paged through one of the books he'd taken from the shelf. It was a book of poetry she'd owned as a girl; the cover was decorated in gilded lilac leaves, and the pages crinkled against his fingertips. He could not yet read the words that the book contained, but she watched as his childish eyes glowingly enjoyed the pictures on the page.

He noticed her and blushed to have been caught in his childish wonderings. His aunt had given him a stern speech on the way home, clutching his hand by her side and informing him that he was to be the man of the house until his father returned from wherever he had gone. John was embarrassed to have been discovered on his belly with one of his mother's favorite books, but she clucked her tongue and walked slowly into the room. He did not move as she eased herself onto the floor beside him, but he hugged his knees and offered her a questioning smile.

"I'm glad that you're home, Mama."

"I am too. What are you reading?"

"That book of poetry you used to keep in the nursery," he said innocently. "The one Aunt Florence gave you."

"Oh, yes. It was in my hope chest when I was married," she sighed thoughtfully, taking the book from his fingers and turning through the pages. She'd loved it as a girl, and her children had enjoyed the evenings when she would read aloud from Lord Shelley's book of poetry.

"What's a hope chest?"

"It's a trunk that girls get when they are married."

"A toy chest?"

"No, John. It usually holds things that a girl will need in her new house. Clothes, linens, things of that sort."

"Oh."

Hannah almost laughed at his boyish disappointment, but she washed her hand against his cheek and drew him into her lap.

"Would you read to me, Mama?"

"Oh, John, I am so tired. Perhaps-" She caught the disappointment in his eyes, and for the first time since Ellen's passing she realized that she had barely seen her son that week. "You know, perhaps we do have time for a poem. Would you like to choose one?"

The boy nodded eagerly and paged through the book of poetry before settling on a page with a picture of the moon reaching over a still lake scene. "This one."

"This one," she echoed, smiling as the boy settled in against her breast by the warmth of the fire. Her voice was strong and clear as she began the poem he'd selected. "Good-night? Ah! no; the hour is ill/ Which severs those it should unite;/ Let us remain together still,/ Then it will be good night."

As she read the poem, she felt a fire in her belly that curled up to capture her heart. The gentle words reminded her of Ellen and the girl's tender, innocent eyes. "How can I call the lone night good,/ Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?/ Be it not said, thought, understood--/ Then it will be -- good night."

Tears burned her eyes and singed the back of her throat, but she could not stop reading.

"Mama, are you alright?"

She thought of her girl and the aching whisper of her last breath on earth. She heard her husband's voice hissing through a nightmare and felt the warm weight of her son in her arms. Suddenly her tears were falling for all that was lost and all that would be found. She read the final stanza in a voice that was laden with sorrow, burdened with hope and fear and love. "To hearts which near each other move/ From evening close to morning light,/ The night is good; because, my love,/ They never say good-night."

She dropped the book by her side and fell upon her son, drawing him into her arms and holding him to her breast. She wept with the freedom that only the sweetest loves can give. It was as though he sensed the ache in her heart that no one else could understand as he curled his arms around her neck and whispered that everything would be alright. The love of a child that is most pure and perfect in this world, and Hannah was overwhelmed with gratitude for the children God had given her. She wept for her daughter in the arms of her son and felt his sweet breath against her neck. His hand patted her back with the fumbled awkwardness of a child, but she rocked him in her arms and heard herself whispering her daughter's name like a benediction.

"I miss her, Mama."

"Me too, lamb."

There were footsteps in the hall, and the firelight fell upon George Thornton in the doorway. His eyes were red and his clothes were rumpled, but he looked on his family with a shyness that partnered shame.

"Hello," he breathed, taking in the warm tears that streaked across his dear wife's cheek.

"Hello."

He walked across the room and knelt before them, averting his eyes as he looked at the fire. "I think I owe you an apology. You, John, and Ellen."

"It is alright, George. We can talk about it all later," she replied, taking his hand and pressing her lips to his flesh. A tear brushed across his fingers, and his heart broke at the sight of it. "Just sit with us, and we shall be together for a time."

"I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry. I just-"

"I know," she said gently. "I know, George. Grief affects us all in different ways, but we will be strong."

"We will?"

"Yes, darling. We'll stay together, and we can keep each other strong. From morning to night," she added tenderly. She pressed her lips to John's forehead and wiped away her tears. "Now, John. Why don't you find us another poem from Shelley? I believe dinner will be ready soon, but let's sit by the fire a few moments longer."

*****************

This chapter killed me. I promise the later ones will not be this heavy, but I hope you liked it. The poem that was quoted is "Good-Night," by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Thanks for reading! --CH


	5. Golden Opportunity

**Golden Opportunity **

"I shall be home for dinner, Mother," John Thornton said. He lunged across the breakfast table for another slice of toast, tucking his cravat into his vest for fear of its dipping into his sister's cup of tea. Fanny wrenched the cup away from danger and held it to her breast, but like her mother she watched as her older brother prepared for another day at the creditor's office on Harrow Street.

"Do try not to come home after dark, again, John. I don't care for you waking through the neighborhood alone in all your finery," Hannah sighed.

"Finery? I doubt that single silk cravat on loan from Mr. Westing and Father's dented pocket watch would be considered treasures, Mother," John chuckled. He dipped his toast into the murky porridge that was served for breakfast; the bread added texture to the mix, but again he wished that they had some jam or butter for their table.

"I've seen neighbors with their scavenger looks. I hardly count them as friends, and I do not trust them when I cannot see them," his mother replied.

"A year in Milton and still it does not feel like home?" he asked sympathetically.

"Home!" Fanny cried. "How on earth could such a horrid hole feel like home?"

John clucked his tongue at his girlish sister, but she was in no mood for games. Indeed, the undeniable scowl on her brow was far from playful. As much as Fanny Thornton reminded the family of her belated father, there was no denying that she was also her mother's child.

"Surely you'll come to like the town, Fanny, once you're able to go out and explore a bit."

"There's nothing to explore, John, except for dirt and grime. Why did we have to come back here in the first place?" she cried.

"Because it is right and noble to answer to one's responsibilities," Hannah snapped. Her tone was enough to silence her daughter's whining pleas. With one stubborn gulp of her tea, Fanny turned dramatically from the table and stole away into the sitting room to tend to her mending.

Hannah sighed and pressed her fingers to her temples. "I'm too old for such foolishness."

John only laughed and kissed her forehead. "Hardly, Mother. It's only that you're not used to a girl who was made for the dramatics of the theater."

"A fine actress she'd be," Hannah scoffed. "Biting the heads off all the scribes who would dare to put her on the stage."

"Lucky for us Fanny's ambitions are far less extravagant. I think she'll be happy if we can find her some poor man with few wits, a fine smile, and money to spare," her son replied as he fumbled with the cufflinks he'd secured from a pawnbroker. The lighting was poor beside the smoldering fire, and they had not yet lit the candle for fear of burning out the dwindling wick. He turned to his mother with a frustrated scowl, and without a word her fingers fastened the little brass pegs into place.

"You'll be careful." It was not a question, but rather a demand that Hannah Thornton exacted on her son as he left the house each morning. Their return to Milton had been quiet and secretive, but most of the plan had been his idea. She'd been careful with their money in all the years they spent in Salford, but the boy had been determined from the beginning that they should one day return to Milton and finish the business his father had not completed.

"After all," he'd reasoned one night after a long day with at Mr. Jacobs' drapery, "Milton is home."

For the longest time, Hannah would have been inclined to disagree. In fact, she'd wanted nothing more than to forget that Milton even existed. Her last few years in the city had been marred by sorrow and hardship, however valiantly that her husband had tried to hide it, and George's death had revealed the scarcity of friendships they had in the community. No, Milton was not home, and she was well shut of it. Only two weeks after George's death, she'd taken her children to the train station in the middle of the night, using what little money she had left to pay for a carriage so they might carry the few possessions that had been spared from auction and reclamation. It had been a black and starless night, but John had not asked any questions when his mother stirred him from his sleep. With rheumy eyes and a stifled yawn, he'd merely gathered little Fanny into his arms and followed Hannah into the darkness for a new beginning.

It was strange to be back in the town that had been her birthplace, but though she could barely stand to admit it, she'd felt the urge to smile when they returned to the familiar streets of Milton. They were but paupers. Most of the money had been marked for John's quest to repay all of the family debts, but they had set aside a few pounds to keep a little house on the eastern side of the city. It was modest, to be certain, and they had little opportunity to enjoy the luxuries that had typified their previous Milton lifestyle, but they rented a few rooms and had plenty of wood for the two stone fireplaces at either end of the small house.

As she watched her son prepare for another day in the offices of George's former friends and creditors, Hannah remembered John's determination to repay his father's debts. She'd argued and spat against the plan; of course she agreed that it was right to repay what had been lost, but her heart had shattered to see her boy shore up his pride and assume the humiliation his father had bequeathed him. John, on the other hand, would have little of her thunderous complaints. He'd been all of twenty-two years old when he looked down at Hannah and said, "Mother, we cannot complain about our duty. Doing so will only make it harder to carry out. Pride is a luxury we cannot afford."

The words had been delivered in a voice that was made of silk and stone. She'd looked into his eyes and wondered when this man had replaced the awkward boy she had once known. The softness of childhood had been replaced by the chiseled features and certain eyes of a young gentleman who knew his place and was not content with it. She knew he was destined for more than his disgraceful task of repaying old and embittered men. Hannah practically beamed as he clasped her hands in his own and pressed a kiss to the ruddy roughness of her fingers.

"We'll be in this house for only a time, Mother. I promise. You were not meant to work so hard, and this family was not made to live in the shadows." And with those words, he'd cupped her cheek as though he was speaking to a stubborn child, and all of her complaints were hushed. He shrugged on the waistcoat she had made from the black piece of cloth Mr. Jacobs had given him as part of his severance. With his purse in one hand and the list of creditors in the other, he flashed a smile and disappeared on the first of many errands.

Nearly a year had passed since that day when the first debt was repaid. John worked quietly and efficiently, asking about with neighborhood merchants to find if any of his father's lenders had removed to other parts of town. He worked on foot, keeping to himself and speaking only to the gentlemen who were concerned with his business. He refused appointments with clerks and lawyers.

"I am acting on behalf of my father," he told one stodgy secretary, "who once regarded your employer as a friend. I should prefer to deal with him directly."

One by one, he handed out the sums that were owed, and one by one, he removed names from his list. To bolster the family purse, Hannah mended garments for families about the neighborhood, though she never deigned to see her clients in person. The work was dropped off at her doorstep after John departed, and a girl from the neighborhood delivered the completed jobs once a week for a few shillings from whatever payments Hannah had amassed. Her profit was small, but it was often enough money for food and small necessities.

There were days when the smallness of the house became painfully apparent, and as John left for another day of work, she realized that it was one of those days. Fanny hummed grumpily to herself in the sitting room. Her needlepoint was marred by the violent strokes that reflected her temper, and she barely looked up when her mother entered the room. Hannah settled into her armchair and reached for a woman's gown from the basket of work that awaited completion. It was a black cotton mourning gown, though the stormy color had faded to a smoky shade of grey from too many washings. Hannah wondered if it was a reflection of the status of the community, that a woman should have to don the somber shades of black so many times to wear away the coal-colored tones of her mourning.

As she reached for her needle, her mind wandered out to the woman who would be waiting for the gown when Hannah completed it. She imagined that it was needed to honor the death of a husband or the loss of a parent. Too often her mind became tangled in wonderings about people she had never before met; she knew it was silly to become so distracted, but the little narratives passed her day on the afternoons when her daughter was not in the mood for conversation.

The morning gave way to the afternoon, and again the sun sailed overhead as another day found its path towards the evening. Fanny climbed out of her frowning disposition at tea time, and her ambling chatter about the London newspapers numbed her mother against the darker thoughts associated with her mending.

At five o'clock, Hannah began to look to the window in search of her son. John rarely returned after dark, and she hoped again that he had embraced her earnest hope that he return early. A man down the lane had been accosted by a few men wielding knives only a few days earlier, cutting his jaw and emptying his pockets of their meager treasure. It was no secret that the mill owners had recently laid off a mass of workers. Food was scarce, and tensions were rising. That was perhaps one of the few certainties on which they could rely in those days.

She heard the echo of his footstep as the six o'clock hour drew to a close. Fanny was irritable that her mother had insisted on postponing supper, but the pretty fifteen year old plaited her hair and pressed the gown she would wear the following day. She approached each morning with the fastidious care of a great and regal lady; she understood that she should not expect any callers, and she grudgingly knew that she was far too young for a lover like the ones she found in the novels her brother brought to her from the library, but still she wanted to prepared for anything.

John's appearance in the kitchen created a stir of emotion. Fanny immediately inveighed upon him for being so tardy and reached for a stack of plates so she might begin serving the thin stew that was to be their supper. Hannah was grim, and her face betrayed the anxiety she had felt in awaiting his return. John, on the other hand, was buoyant, and his smile seemed to warm the room as he crossed the floor in only three broad strides.

"I know, Mother. I am late, and I should have sent someone with a note. I know, but…Mother, I have a gift for you."

"A gift?" she replied. "What gift could I want?"

"What gift?! Oh, John, do not listen to her. What have you brought us? Is it a piano? I do so miss having a piano-"

"What need have we for a piano when we've not had beef or fish in days, Fanny?" Hannah snapped. She chastised herself for being harsh with a girl who was only a reflection of her father. George's cheerful delight of music, dancing, and wit seemed to have been lost on his son, but young Fanny had absorbed every one of her late father's passions. He'd doted on her from the beginning, giving into her every whim and desire so he might see her smile. Hannah was always so tempted to warn him about spoiling the girl, but her husband's own joy in seeing the child's delight encouraged Hannah to keep her silence. She knew that George was to blame for Fanny's silly attraction to the luxuries of the aristocracies, but too many years and an ocean of tears had taught Hannah that blaming the dead was of little help to anyone.

Nonetheless, even John seemed immune to Fanny's starry dreams of gentlewoman's prizes. "No, Fanny, it is not a piano. Mother, it's…Williams. Charles Williams, Father's creditor near the market. He's offered me a position in his firm."

"Williams?"

Memories are cunning to catch on a whim, but Hannah seized her thoughts and remembered Charles Williams from the early months of her marriage. He'd visited the house to talk with George, and she'd been struck by his age and his odor. A man in his early fifties, he was a confirmed bachelor who carried with him the stink of stale sweat wherever he roamed. She'd been forced to sit through a dinner with him as he talked with George about financial markets and cello performances, but she remembered begging the servants to throw open the windows as soon as Williams had left for the evening.

"Yes. He was my afternoon appointment, and he said he was quite impressed that I had taken on Father's responsibilities. He apparently remembers Father in a kind way and went on about my character and its implications of my coming to him today. He seemed so happy to see me. I-"

"Hard to imagine Charles Williams looking 'happy,'" Hannah mused.

"I'll admit he's a character, and yes, rather misanthropic in his old age, but Mother, he wants to bring me into his firm."

His excitement could barely be contained. Fanny's eyes were alight and glowing, even though she could hardly understand the business at hand. She rejoiced in the sound of happiness that so seldom seemed to grace their household, and thus she was overjoyed for _his_ joy.

"But to do _what_ in his firm? You've hardly any training-"

"I asked him that, too, but he said he needs to train a few young men to take on the place when he retires. I'll be learning business and the proper occupation for a trade, under his tutelage."

"A trade? What trade?"

"It seems he's connected with a rather wealthy man from the south, and Williams is in the position to suggest business opportunities for the absent investor to consider. He says one of the mills near Marlborough Street is in poor condition under its current ownership, and—Oh, Mother, I know it's a wealth of information for us to take in, but please, know this. It is a wonderful opportunity that is going to change everything."

She watched her son speak, and the look in his eyes conveyed the truth in his words. Another man would have succumbed to a fit of glorious passion in explaining such good fortune, but John was calm and composed as he knelt before her and explained what was to come. Those cool blue eyes were as still as the morning sea, and the smile that crept onto his lips coaxed one onto her own.

"Of course I'll continue meeting with creditors tomorrow, but I spent most of the afternoon and the evening in his office, reviewing his financial records and isolating weaker spots in his strategy. He was impressed that Jacobs had given me such experience at the drapery, and he seemed interested by what I deduced from his books. And as I left, he gave me this." John placed a cold coin into the palm of Hannah's hand, folding her fingers against it so she might feel the smoothness of its golden edges. "Only for a fraction of a day's work, Mother."

She turned the coin over in her hand, savoring its weight under the glory of the boy's smile. She looked into his eyes and saw his hope and promise. She knew that he was incapable of letting her down; his body and his mind were made for greater things, and she was certain that tomorrow would be a bright day for the family.

"We'll not spend this, John," she sighed, pressing the coin into her palm and looking up at him. "I'm sure there are many more to come, so I shall keep it forever as a reminder of your goodness and your promise, for you are the son that was destined to be mine."

And with those words of gentle praise, the sea in his eyes was illuminated with sunlight, for his happiness could not be contained any longer.


	6. The Comb

**The Comb**

Hannah Thornton was not a woman to linger in her bedchamber. The servants always marveled that the young mistress woke before sunrise, dressed before breakfast, and started the day before coffee. She often dressed without her maid, and her hair would be content in a flustered chignon until after she had tended to her morning correspondence. She was not one to be unkempt, but neither was she a woman to dally with trivialities of curl and lace when there was work to be done.

On that particular morning, Molly and Careen were whispering beside the staircase. It was well after ten o'clock. The master had breakfasted and read the paper, and already he'd swept through the foyer with his hat in hand, anxious to start another day of business. The poor house servants were uncertain of how to proceed. The eggs and toast points were growing chilly on the sideboard, but still the mistress had not left her chamber. The coffee and tea had been warmed twice over by nervous hands expecting an upbraiding from Mrs. Thornton's tongue, but the door never opened.

"I been here since the girl married the master," Molly marveled. "Ne'er in my days have I seen her lolly about in her room like this."

"M'happen she's ill? What with the babe and all…"

"No. She's the hips of a horse. I doubt she'll struggle with the child. This must be something else." She peered around the corner as though she were afraid of being spotted by an absent guard.

"Reckon we ought to put away the breakfast settings?" Careen was new to her position, and she was still uncertain of how things were done in the Thornton house. The master was kind and gentle; he'd barely glanced up when she sloshed the tea tray last week. The mistress was another story; Careen would never say that Mrs. Thornton was given to tempers, but those umber eyes could chill the blood in her veins.

"Might as well. Nan said she knocked on the door earlier this morning, just to make sure the dark wench hadn't been claimed by a spirit in the night, but the mistress said she wanted to be alone."

"Strange, though, reckon?"

"Aye. Quite strange, but there's naught we can do about it. Come, Careen. We'll shelve the china and try not to break those precious little teacups, and then we can see what's on hand to serve for luncheon."

The voices faded down the hall as the nervous girl and her haughty companion retreated for the kitchen, but Hannah Thornton paid them little attention. She'd become talented at ignoring the whispers and grumbles of the household, and her warm dreams were still holding her close as the new day began. She was tucked in the warm confines of her bed, her black hair tumbling over her breasts as she took stock of her body. It would be another two months before the child arrived, but still the magic was undeniable. Her fingers traced trails and paths across the wide world of her belly. She thought of the globe that was once perched on a shelf in her father's study. It had enthralled her as a girl, and she remembered the possibilities she'd imagined as she explored on every inch of its surface. Her hands were playing similar games today, wandering across new territory and wondering about the future.

She was naked but for the cool linen sheet gathered around her waist. Her husband's gentle touch had roused her from her dreams, but those sweet moments in his arms were dreamlike in their own way, as well. They made love as a honey colored sun climbed to the sky above them, smiling and touching with the gentleness of young and patient lovers. For a moment she'd been embarrassed when he reached for her; she was not the woman she'd been when they first married, and the elegant changes of motherhood were far from subtle. Still, she'd had no reason to blush. George took her hands and kissed her brow, her cheek, her neck, and everything else that was his. He loved her, and she knew that it was all she could ever desire.

When all was said and done, she was curled up against his chest, holding him close and brushing her fingers through his sandy hair. His hand moved slowly across her swollen belly, but his smile was constant and sure as he talked easily about the future he imagined for his family. She listened to his plans as he talked of sending the boy to Oxford and watching him grow to become a better version of his father.

"There's no such thing," Hannah interjected firmly. She rarely made time for his casual doubts and self-disparaging, but watching him then, with the sun on his skin and such hope in his eyes, she could not bear for him to speak ill of himself. "You're the most perfect man I know."

"Flaws included?"

"A man cannot be perfect without a few blemishes on his character or his soul; without them, he could not be a man, and therefore he could not be a perfect man."

"Imperfections make perfection?" He was smiling at her, goading her along with a teasing manner that made her blush.

"The two go hand in hand," she said, placing her hand over his and feeling the child move within her.

"Just like you and me," he sighed, touching the band he'd placed on her finger. "Hand in hand."

"Without doubt."

He curled up beside her, and his hands explored once again, gliding over her soft skin and savoring each curve and dimple. "Do you think I'll be a good father?"

"You're kind and gentle, and you've a heart spun from gold. Of course you'll be a good father," she asserted. She wondered if her certainty and seemed too forceful, for a veiled shadow lurked behind his eyes. She held his hand and touched his cheek, quietly imploring him to meet her gaze when she said, "You're a good man, George, and that's what makes a good father. You'll do well."

He responded to her softer tone with the smile of a boy. He gathered her into his arms and held her in his lap as though she were a babe herself, though she was actually a tall, elegant woman who nearly reached his own stature.

"I think it's a boy," he confided.

"I know you do."

"I'd like a girl, too, of course, but my bones tell me this is a son."

"Do your bones also tell you that he'll weigh ten stone, as that's what it seems to me," she sighed, shifting her weight as the child began to move once again. The burden was pleasant but heavy, and there were days when she wondered if her body would ever feel the same again when all was said and done.

"No, they tell me I've a beautiful wife and a wonderful son on the way," he replied brightly. She did not smile, but her eyes were alight with the joy from within. She touched his cheek once more and said, "Do smile more often, lamb. It does me good to see it."

"I could say the same, wife. I could, indeed." He pressed his lips to her brow and wove his fingers through the waves of black curls that tumbled down her back. "You're a good wife, and you'll be a fine mother to the babe."

"Thank you. I-"

"But any fine mother needs a bit of finery, I believe."

She watched as he reached for the bedside table. The ropes and contours of his muscles were evident in his movements, and she could deny herself the opportunity to caress his shoulders with her fingers. He chuckled to himself but pressed a soft linen handkerchief into her palm.

She resisted her sigh and managed a smile; she did not like it when he garnished her with gifts. She'd spent the first year of their marriage rallying against the foolish expenses and frivolities he carried home on days that had no meaning, but he always insisted that he liked to see her smile and enjoyed the little fight she put up before submitting to his affection.

"Come on, love. Open it up. Sorry the wrapping is so poor, but…"

She unfolded the delicate linen creases and heard a gasp escape her lips as the wink of pearl and emerald green caught her eye. The comb was elegant in its simplicity; turquoise and lavender were captured in the gleaming tortoiseshell.

"It's like the sea," she breathed, hardly meaning to whisper the words. "Or the clouds."

"I just thought it reminded me of you," he grinned, pushing his fingers through the luxurious swell of curls hurrying down her back. "I know I should never be able to control this mane, but perhaps a fine comb could do the job. And, I know you get upset when I spend money to show you how much you deserve, so you'll be quite happy to learn that one of our servant girls could have afforded this little trifle."

"You're too good," she winked. "I love it, George. I do."

He took it from her and slid it into her curls. "It looks fine, love. Quite fine. Fit for a queen."

She kissed him again to show her thanks, but with a glance at the clock he realized the hour and moved from her embrace. She knew that there was work to be done and a day to begin, but she lazed about in their bed as he readied for another day in the office. She rarely asked what he did or how he did it; her love was trusting and kind, and she knew that he would see them through.

He pressed his lips to her cheek before leaving for his hurried breakfast. He promised that he loved her and gave her his word that he would be home in time for dinner; she watched him leave and gathered the bedclothes around her waist. Lost in her thoughts, she daydreamed and imagined for most of the morning, never noticing the hour or the whispered voices beyond the door.

Her thoughts were wandering across the afternoons of her girlhood and through the tender whispers of her marriage bed when the child brought her back to the present. The kick was abrupt and startling, and she looked down in time to see the bold outline of a foot or knee pressing against her flesh. She sighed and caressed the soft taut skin of her belly. Reaching for her dressing gown, she knew that the child was more perceptive than she was on that particular morning. A new day had to be started, and fresh challenges were ready to be met.

She dressed quickly, reaching for the lilac shift dress she'd chosen for the full months of her pregnancy. She hurried into a pair of slippers and tended to her toilette, but as she darted from the bedroom, she tucked the thick mass of her hair into place with the shining, delicate gift from her loving husband.


End file.
